Chapter 1
Returning to college should have felt like a fresh start, and in some ways it did. The streets were quiet, buildings familiar, and most importantly, I hadn’t run into her over the summer. Not that I’d ever admit to thinking about her too much these days – Blair Kincaid existed in a carefully compartmentalised part of my brain, the kind you only let peek out when you’re alone, unpacking your tiny dorm room.
It had been 352 days since I last saw Blair Kincaid. I told myself that enough times to almost believe it. Almost. Summer had been mercifully uneventful – no chance encounters in my hometown, no reminders that she had this uncanny way of making the world revolve entirely around her.
For once, I could breathe.
The quad was quiet, dotted with the occasional early-arriving student lugging a backpack. My own bags were stacked neatly in the corner of my room, the posters I’d rescued from last year taped slightly crooked to the walls.
My parents had dropped me off a few hours earlier, they’d offered to stay and help me get settled but I didn’t want to delay the start of their road trip across the country. Something they’d been planning for months, and with me out of the house and back at college safely for the next semester, they could hit their first destination.
I pause at the window, watching the leaves skitter across the brick paths, the sun falling just right on the dorms. Everything looks as it should – calm, small-town sleepy, a little too perfect.
My phone buzzes on the desk, pulling me out of my daydream. I grabb it, half expecting some random notification, but it was Ethan.
“Hey, Juniper,” he said, voice rough. “Move-in go okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, propping myself against the window sill. “Everything’s unpacked. Room survived the parental inspection.”
He chuckles. “Glad to hear it. I’m stuck at the shop all day, Dad’s got me doing engine oil changes and whatever else he can throw at me. Thought I’d check in before I lose track of time.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling at the thought of him elbow-deep in greasy engines. “I’ll probably head out for a bit and see if anyone’s back on campus yet.”
“Sounds perfect. Don’t forget to eat, Juniper,” he said, his voice softening. “I miss you already. I’ll try to come up in a few weeks, maybe we can hit up that dumpling place off campus again?”
I laugh. “Deal. Just promise you won’t get lost on the way here again.”
“Promise,” I could hear him smiling through the phone. “And text me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.” I said. “Love you."
"Love you too,” he replies.
I end the call and set the phone on my desk. Even with the quiet of the campus around me, hearing his voice made the room feel a little warmer. For now, life was predictable, calm, and exactly how I liked it.
I push open the door to the campus coffee shop, the soft jingle of the bell announcing my arrival. The warmth inside is a relief from the crisp fall air.
My eyes scan the store, quickly landing on my friends gathered on the sofas in the corner. As I approach Hannah catches my eye, she offers a small wave and smiles as she beckons me over.
I slide into the empty seat beside her, and she pulls me in for a hug.
“Ugh. It’s been too long,” She said as she pulls away.
“I know, how was your summer?” I asked, settling into the sofa.
Across from us, Tobin and Avery exchange quick hellos as Hannah shrugged.
“Not that eventful, to be honest,” she mutters.
Tobin scoffs. “That is not true.”
Hannah’s cheeks redden, and she brushes her hair away from her face.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Ask her about the neighbour.” Avery cuts in, a shit-eating smile on her face.
I look at Hannah, waiting for her to enlighten me. She just rolls her eyes.
“Come on, guys, just drop it.” She grumbles, shooting a glare at Avery and Tobin.
“If she’s not going to tell you, then I will,” Tobin says, pausing for dramatic effect. “Somebody spent the whole summer hooking up with her hot older neighbour.”
“What? The old guy she spent the majority of the last semester calling Dream Boat?”
“He’s not old – he’s like thirty-eight or something,” Hannah interrupts, cheeks still pink.
Avery snorts. “Thirty-eight, huh? That’s practically ancient. Like double our age.”
Hannah groans, leaning back in her chair. “Yes, yes, he’s older. But it was just summer fun, alright? Nothing serious.”
“So if he text you right now you wouldn’t get all flustered?” I ask, smirking.
“Fine. Maybe a little. I don’t know. He’s really cute and my neighbour, he’s still going to be there when I next go home. It’s not like it was one and done. That would be awkward.” Hannah says.
Tobin’s still laughing when Hannah kicks his ankle lightly. “Oh, shut up. It wasn’t some strategic operation. It just happened.”
“Uh-huh,” Avery says, sipping her drink. “Happened. Repeatedly.”
Hannah groans and sinks lower into the sofa. “I hate all of you.”
“You missed us though,” I smile.
She squints at me, the corner of her mouth lifts. “Maybe a tiny bit.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “Five minutes in and it already feels like last semester.”
Avery shoots Hannah a pointed look. “Chaos follows her like smoke.”
“That’s dramatic, and anyway, I'm vowing to turn a new leaf this year. No weird flings, no getting blackout drunk,” Hannah indicates to me. “I’m rebuking any chaos, doubling it and passing it all to Juniper.”
“Absolutely not.” I laugh back.
Hannah tosses a sugar packet at me. “Why not? You barely did anything chaotic last year. It’s your turn.”
“What about Tobin, I’m pretty sure he spent every waking moment he had in the library last year.”
“And you only know that because you were sat right next to me.” He pushes back.
“It’s like jury duty, Juniper. Once you’ve been selected you can’t back out.” Avery says.
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re all unhinged.”
“Correct,” Hannah says, finally sitting up straight. “But at least I’m self-aware this year. That’s growth.”
“Tremendous growth,” he says. “We’re all really proud of you, Hannah.”
Hannah flips him off.
The group relaxes into a more natural rhythm, conversation looping between summer stories, campus rumours, and who’s already moved back.
The longer we sit there, the more something in my chest unknots. The nerves, the long stretch of summer, the sense that everything had been holding its breath – it all begins to melt away.
The afternoon feels sharper as we step outside, like the day had gotten colder the more it had gone on.
As my friends fiddle with zipping their coats up, the first thing I notice is the truck.
A white utility vehicle is parked near the edge of the quad, logo on the door reading Campus Safety & Environmental Response – a department I’ve only ever seen scolding people for cycling too fast or parking on the grass.
Two uniformed rangers stand beside it, talking in low, clipped voices with a campus officer.
A small group of students hover nearby, whispering.
“What’s going on?” Avery asks, assessing the scene.
“No clue,” Tobin says. “They were over by the north path earlier too.”
One of the rangers pulls a long black case from the truck bed. A tranquiliser kit. My stomach dips.
“They only use those for wildlife,” Hannah murmurs. “Like, big wildlife.”
“I heard someone found some animal carcasses near the woods,” Tobin says, glancing around. “Like, ripped up.”
“Could be a bear?” Avery suggests.
“Do bears even come this close?” I ask. The campus is surrounded by enough forest that maybe they do, but I’ve never heard of one wandering this far in.
“Could be rabies,” Tobin says. “My cousin’s clinic had a fox once, tore up someone’s garden. It was foaming at the mouth.”
“Gross.” Hannah mumbles. “Why are campus safety involved if it’s just a bear that’s wandered too close? Surely the rangers are used to that?”
No one answers.
A ranger notices us looking and gives a small, tight smile – the kind that says keep moving. Another is crouched by the treeline, examining tracks or something half-hidden in the undergrowth. A portable sign has been propped beside the path:
TRAIL TEMPORARILY CLOSED – WILDLIFE ACTIVITY
“Okay, no,” Hannah murmurs. “Absolutely not. This is horror movie energy.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Tobin says, though he doesn’t sound too thrilled about it.
We keep walking, but something prickles along the back of my neck. The woods that surround the campus feel still. Like the whole place is holding its breath.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab my bike from the rack outside the dorm. The autumn air is biting this morning, with that kind of edge to it that's crisp enough to wake you up. I kick off, pedaling down the brick paths, weaving around students and faculty heading to their first classes of the semester.
The campus is quieter than usual, most of the freshmen still fumbling with orientation schedules. The old oaks lining the quad begin to look bare as their leaves skitter across the pavement in the breeze. I pass the faculty of science building, the cafeteria and the little courtyard where I spent most of the previous year nursing a coffee before class.
My gaze flicks toward the edge of the woods near the north path. The “TRIAL TEMPORARILY CLOSED - WILDLIFE ACTIVITY” sign is still up, leaning slightly in the breeze. I frown, then shake my head. Better safe than sorry. I angle my bike toward the main path, away from the woods.
A few students I recognise give me a nod as I coast past, and I wave back, careful not to let my wheel hit the curb. The summer break was slow, and quiet, painfully normal, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I might actually be ready for the semester.
The lecture hall comes into view, imposing but not unwelcoming, its brick facade framed by the beginning-of-semester hustle. I hop off the bike, locking it to the nearest rack, and take a deep breath.
With my bag slung over my shoulder, I push the door open and step inside.
The room smells faintly of polished wood and old paper. Rows of seats fan out toward the front, where a large oak podium suits, slightly worn at the edges. A few students have already claimed spots, flipping through the syllabi or whispering quietly to each other.
I notice that Avery is already here, I thread between rows, making my way to where she sits in the middle of the lecture hall. As she sees me approaching, she moves her bag from the bench beside me so I can sit down next to her.
“Thanks for saving me a seat,” I say as I unzip my bag and pull my things out.
“No problem,” Avery says. “Figured you’d want a spot before it fills up.”
I settle into my seat and glance around the hall. “Did you hear anything about the new professor?” I ask.
Avery shrugs, tapping her pen against her notebook. “Not much. Heard someone got a glimpse of him in the faculty lounge. Supposedly… very intense. But you know rumours get around.”
I nod, letting the thought linger. Intense could mean anything.
The hall gradually fills, a low hum of voices rising and falling as students settle onto the benches. Bags thud onto the worn wood, and the occasional pen clicks against a notebook.
Sunlight filters through the tall windows, tracing golden lines across the polished floors and warming the edges of the podium. The room feels alive with anticipation, that charged sort of quiet that comes at the very start of a semester.
A hush falls over the room as the set of doors by the podium swing open and a man enters, tall, composed, and impeccably dressed – his jacket cut in a style that feels both old-world and sharp, modern at the same time. His dark hair is neatly combed, and there’s a subtle weight in the way he carries himself, like he’s used to commanding attention without raising his voice.
“Good morning,” he says, voice calm but precise, echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged hall. “I am Professor Langley, and this semester we will be exploring British and World Literature – from canonical classics to modern reinterpretations. You will be expected to read carefully, think critically, and participate in discussion. Lateness, inattentiveness, or a lack of preparation will not be tolerated.”
He pauses, and his posture stiffens for a moment, jaw tightening ever so slightly. His gaze sweeps across the room, and then–briefly–settles on me. Just for a heartbeat. My stomach curls. It’s nothing overt, but something in the way he looks at me makes my skin prick with unease.
He turns to the chalkboard behind him, beginning to write notes, but the faint tension lingers. A few students glance at each other, pens paused mid-note, sensing that the air shifted.
Avery leans close. “Definitely intense,” she whispers.
“Understatement,” I murmur, pressing my notebook open and trying to focus. But the unease doesn’t fade. His presence, so calm, so controlled, and yet somehow… heavy–settles in the space around me. I can’t put my finger on why, only that something about him feels different.
He starts to outline the syllabus on the board, writing carefully in crisp, even letters. As he speaks about the required readings, I notice the meticulous attention he pays to the way he phrases each expectation, the weight he gives to discussion and analysis.
Even without looking, you can tell he has absorbed centuries of literature, a mind that has measured, catalogued, and learned beyond any ordinary lifespan.
I glance at Avery, who is scribbling notes efficiently, and then back at the front. For the rest of the lecture, I take notes, but there’s a constant awareness – an itch at the back of my mind, that Professor Langley’s gaze had caught me, if only for a moment. Everyone else is absorbed in the content, but I can’t shake the subtle weight in the air, the feeling that he sees more than he lets on.
By the time the lecture ends, the room hums with the typical shuffle of students packing up. I pack up my things and grab my bag and Avery and I leave.
We step out of the lecture hall and into the brighter light of the corridor, the door swinging shut behind us. Avery lets out a low breath.
“Well,” she says, adjusting the strap of her bag, “that was… something.”
“Mm.” I’m still trying to settle my nerves. “He’s definitely not wasting time setting the tone.”
Avery snorts. “Understatement.” Then, softer: “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… first day jitters, I guess.” I give a shrug that I hope reads as casual. “Anyway, what do you have next?”
“History of the British Isles.” She rolls her eyes. “I heard the room doesn’t even have proper heating.”
I laugh, the tension easing a little. “Academic hardship. You’ll survive.”
She’s smiling back at me when something shifts in her expression. Her eyes flick upward– past me, her posture tightening just a fraction. Not alarmed, exactly. More like, caught off guard. Flustered.
“Avery?” I start to turn. “What are you–”
I turn, and my whole body goes tight before my brain even catches up.
I swallow heavily. The world around me suddenly feels small, far away.
Everything blurry but her.
Blair.
She’s standing right behind me, not moving, not speaking yet.
Light filters through the trees behind her, catching in her dark hair, making her look impossibly composed–beautiful in the way that’s dangerous, because it pulls at something you don’t want pulled.
For a second, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t even shift her stance. She just looks at me, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment, for me to turn around and finally see her.
My stomach drops, twisting hard. The floor feels unsteady beneath my feet. Of all the ways I told myself this might happen – in passing, from a distance, maybe with some kind of warning – this was not one of them.
Her presence hits like a pressure change in the air, familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten painfully. A rush of heat, then cold, then heat again, like my body can’t decide which emotion should win.
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
Blair’s eyes sweep my face, searching in that steady, unreadable way she’s always had.
Avery stands still beside me. I can sense her staring at Blair without even looking, wide-eyed, like she’s forgotten how to blink. But it all feels muffled, distant.
Blair’s gaze locks on me, sharp and unwavering, as though I’m the only person in the world. My thoughts scramble, but before I can process anything else, she smiles–small, but deliberate– and then her voice cuts through the crisp air:
“Hey, Junie.”
My breath catches like my body doesn’t know how to do that anymore. My name in her voice. Soft. Familiar. Too close to the way she used to say it.
A year of distance collapses in on itself.
And I have no idea what to do with the pieces.
